Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

Finchley garden – probably a Lurker or a Shade . . . Oh, and an urgent request from Mrs Eileen Smithers of Chorley. Every night, when alone in the small hours, she hears—’
    ‘Hold it,’ Lockwood said. ‘Eileen Smithers? Didn’t we work for her before?’
    ‘We did. That time it was a “ghastly disembodied howling” resounding about her lounge and kitchen. We thought it might be a Screaming Spirit. In fact it washer neighbour’s cat, Bumbles, trapped inside the cavity wall.’
    Lockwood made a face. ‘Oh Lord, I remember. And this time?’
    ‘An “eerie, child-like wailing” heard in her attic. Starts around midnight, when—’
    ‘It’ll be the bloody cat again.’ Lockwood removed his left hand from beneath the water bottles and flexed the fingers carefully. The skin was slightly blue. ‘All in all, it’s not the most thrilling programme in the history of psychical detection, is it? Lurkers, Shades, and Bumbles the ginger tom . . . What happened to the good cases, like the Mortlake Horror and the Dulwich Wraith?’
    ‘If by “good” you mean a powerful, challenging ghost,’ I said, ‘last night’s was pretty fine. Trouble was – we weren’t expecting it.’
    ‘As the police at Scotland Yard repeatedly pointed out to me,’ Lockwood growled. ‘No, by “good”, I mean cases that might make us some money. None of this stuff’s exactly big time.’ He subsided back into his chair.
    It was rare for Lockwood to mention money; it wasn’t his usual motivation. There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘Funnily enough, George has found out a bit about our ghost-girl,’ I said brightly. ‘Tell him about it, George.’
    George had been dying to get it off his chest all day. He whipped the article out of his pocket and read it through. Lockwood – who seldom had much interest in the identityof Visitors, even when they hadn’t injured him – listened indifferently.
    ‘Annabel Ward?’ he said at last. ‘So that was her name? I wonder how she died . . .’
    ‘And who it was who killed her,’ I added.
    Lockwood shrugged. ‘Fifty years is a long time. We’ll never know. I’m more concerned about now . Her ghost has created a real mess for us. The police aren’t at all happy about the fire.’
    ‘So what did happen with them last night?’ George said.
    ‘Not much. They took my statement. I argued our case pretty well – dangerous Visitor, our lives at risk, had to act on the spur of the moment , all the obvious stuff. But they didn’t seem convinced.’ He broke off, stared out of the window again.
    ‘And now?’ I said.
    He shook his head. ‘We’ll have to see what happens.’
    As to that , we found out sooner than expected. Not twenty minutes later a brusque hammering sounded on the front door. George went to answer it. He returned with a blue-fringed visiting card and an expression of grim dismay.
    ‘Mr Montagu Barnes of DEPRAC,’ he said bleakly. ‘Are you at home?’
    Lockwood groaned. ‘I’ll have to be. He knows I’m in no state to go out today. All right. Show him in.’
    The Department of Psychical Research and Control, orDEPRAC, is one of the most powerful organizations in the country. It’s sort of part of the government, and sort of part of the police, but is actually run by lots of old operatives who’ve grown too slow and decrepit even to be supervisors any more. One of their main jobs is to keep tabs on the agencies and make sure we all follow the rules.
    Inspector Barnes liked the rules more than most. He was famously officious and had a deep dislike of anything that didn’t follow DEPRAC guidelines to the letter. Lockwood and George had crossed paths with him on several occasions, mostly before I’d joined the company. This was the first time I’d seen him at close quarters, so I studied him with interest as he entered the living room.
    He was a small man, wearing a dark, rather crumpled suit. His shoes were brown and scuffed, his trousers just too long for him. He was dressed in a long brown raincoat that extended to his knees, and had a brown-suede bowler on his head. His hair was lank and thin, except under his nose, where sat a resplendent moustache, as coarse and tufty as a brand-new scrubbing brush. His age was uncertain; perhaps he was a lived-in fifty. To me he seemed inexpressibly old, one short step from becoming a Visitor himself. He had a melancholy, drawn expression, as if all light and joy had been surgically removed from his person under